Chapter 78 Especially This
Especially This
Ihave decided I do not like Colsar’s chambers. They are large and open, with plenty of room for us and our household, but something in them sits cold and overly masculine, a remnant of the man he was before we married. My chambers are softer, more welcoming, but far too small for what we are now.
"I cannot wait until the Moon Chambers are ready," I say, turning slowly. "Last time we were in Veynar we were waiting for them to be prepared, and then you had to leave."
Colsar smiles faintly, something quieter in it now than the expression he wore in the council. “Yes,” he says. “And now they have collected enough dust that I do not want my children inhaling it, so we must wait a little longer.”
I sigh and let myself fall back onto the bed, the soft weight of it catching me as I stretch out beside him. “So it is official?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.
“It is almost official,” he replies. “She is not yet six months old. Once she is, it will be recorded formally. For now, it has been signed and witnessed.”
I let that settle, letting the words move through me slowly. “So,” I say after a moment, a small smile finding its way through, “we have accomplished the first part of what we came here to do.”
Colsar nods. “We have. And tonight we will celebrate by finally being alone. The children are fine, Saurin and Cambra found an anthology of children’s tales they wish to read them.”
I smile. “I cannot wait until they are old enough to play with toys. Then I can carve them myself.” My heart pulls a little as I think of the orphan boy, Orsan, and the other children I used to make toys for. I wonder how they are doing.
He reaches for my hand and pulls me up, leading me from the chamber and down the short corridor into the adjoining dining room. The moment I step inside, I laugh softly, recognition hitting at once.
The game room. It looks exactly as it did when he first surprised me with it. “The best gift you have ever given me,” I say, unable to hide the joy in my voice.
“I thought we should play after dinner,” he replies, his voice lighter now.
We eat together without urgency, the tension of the council still lingering at the edges of the room but no longer pressing into us the way it had before.
He tells me what happened before I entered, the way the council shifted, the arguments that built and broke, and I lean back in my chair, watching him as much as I listen.
When they bring out the strawberry cake, I cannot stop the small sound that escapes me.
“You remembered,” I say, already reaching for it.
“I realized you had not had any in a long time,” he replies, and there is something in his tone that softens the moment further.
He pulls me into his lap, and I go easily, my body fitting against his without hesitation. “It tastes better when you feed it to me,” I say, tilting my head slightly.
“I know,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth and let him feed me, the sweetness grounding me in a way I had not realized I needed. For a moment, there is nothing else. No council. No throne. No war. Just this.
Afterward, we move into the game room and he keeps his promise. We play darts, then something else, then something else again, the time passing without weight until I feel lighter than I have in days.
When we return to his chambers, the shift comes quietly.
We lie on the bed together, the air between us different now, something deeper moving beneath the ease of the evening.
“So,” I say, turning toward him, “What is next?”
I am asking about the throne. Our plans. Morrath.
“I listen better when your clothes are off,” he murmurs.
I laugh softly. “Fine. You filthy man. Only for you.”
He kisses me then, slow enough that I forget the question entirely, and when I pull back I frown slightly. “Now I have forgotten what I was saying.”
“You were saying you love me,” he replies easily, “and that you cannot wait for me to hand you Veynar, and in return you will give me ten more children just as perfect as the first two.”
I laugh, pushing lightly at his chest. “We will have to figure out what is next,” I say more seriously, my fingers still resting against him. “She is the heir now. So we must decide whether you will take the throne.”
He does not hesitate. His hands move to the ties of my gown, loosening them as though the answer has always existed. “I am taking the throne,” he says. “There was never a decision to be made.”
I pause at that, watching him. “If we find that Morrath is controllable,” I say slowly, “or that it can be destroyed for the sake of peace, do you still want it?”
He stills, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Do you wish for Sevrin to remain king?” he asks.
“I wish to understand what we are inheriting before we take it,” I reply. “He is many things, but he is your brother. And he is…their uncle.”
His jaw tightens. “Asharin,” he says, quieter but no less intense, “he starved you. He locked you away. He refused to protect you when you asked him to. And still you—”
I press my fingers to his lips, stopping the rest of it before it can take shape. “We are not arguing about your brother,” I say softly. “He is yours. This is your legacy. You will decide what becomes of it.”
I let my hand fall. “I am only saying we need to understand Morrath. It can only be controlled by feeders. We need to know what that means for her.”
He is quiet for a moment, then nods once. “There is something else you should know,” he says.
I watch him.
"Mysin is alive."
Something cold moves through me. I should not be surprised. Of course Sevrin didn’t kill him.
"Sevrin kept him," he continues. "In the dungeons."
"He will not remain there," I say. "I will kill him."
Colsar studies me, something measured moving through his expression. "You are certain?”
"Yes." A pause. "But let him not ruin today’s small victory.”
I shift then, moving to sit in his lap, my hands lifting to frame his face as I look at him fully. "Today I was everything I was supposed to be," I say quietly.
He watches me.
“Everything but what I want to be,” I add, softer now. “Badly.”
“And what is that?” he asks.
“Yours,” I say. “In the way that we both need.”
Something in him changes at that.
He moves, guiding me back slightly as the space between us draws closer, something unspoken passing between us that shifts everything without a word.
He lowers himself into the chair beside the bed and watches me, waiting, but there is nothing passive in it.
His shoulders tense, his hand tightening briefly against the arm of the chair as if he is already holding himself in place.
“Show me,” he says.
I meet his eyes for a moment, aware of what he is asking, aware of the choice I am making in answering it. Something in his expression deepens as I hold there, as though he is measuring the distance between intention and action, and finding that he wants the answer before I even move.
Then I do. I slide off the bed and lower myself to the floor, my knees pressing into the rug as I begin to crawl toward him, slow at first, then with more certainty.
The closer I get, the more I feel the shift in him, the way his breathing changes, the way his focus is entirely on me.
By the time I reach him, there is nothing restrained about the way he is watching me.
He shoves his pants down, freeing himself, and I reach for him. His hand closes around my wrist before I can touch him, firm enough to stop me, not enough to push me away.
“No,” he says quietly. The word comes lower now, roughened by something he is no longer trying to hide.
And I stop. Waiting.
A sound slips out of me before I can stop it, my body tightening at the refusal instead of easing. His hand closes in my hair, pulling my head back just enough. “Open.”
I comply, mouth parting as he pushes in, hard and deep.
I choke a little, eyes watering as he thrusts, each motion rougher, the wet sounds growing louder in the quiet room.
He grabs my wrists, pinning them behind me with one hand as he drives into my throat.
Finally, he finishes, hot liquid spilling down as I swallow, his length still filling my mouth.
He holds there for a moment, looking down at me with a fierce, possessive intensity. Then he pulls out slowly.
I lick my lips, staring up at him. “I am yours,” I say quietly.
Something in him darkens. The glyphs along his skin glow faintly in the candlelight.
“Prove it.”
I lean forward, tongue tracing over the base of him, then lower, finding the tight ring of skin below. He jerks back, but I’ve already gone too far. “Fuck…” The word comes low, strained, his hand tightening in my hair like he’s deciding whether to stop me.
“This was not—” he begins, the words breaking off as his breath changes, uneven in a way I have never heard from him.
“Hmm?,” I say innocently, knowing he can barely form words, my hands stroking him as he hardens again under my touch. I press deeper with my tongue, ignoring his half-protest as his breathing turns to low moans.
“Fuck, Asha,” he groans, caught in the sensation, unable to pull away as I work him.
I stop just long enough to meet his eyes.
“I love you. All of you. Even here. Especially here.” I kiss the spot again, then push my tongue fully inside, hands moving on him until he spills across my fingers in sharp bursts, moaning loud enough to fill the room, the sound dragged out of him without restraint.
He slumps halfway in the chair, legs trembling, chest flushed, fingers still tangled in my hair.
He stares at me for a long stretch, something raw and unguarded in his expression as his breath steadies.
He pulls me onto his lap, my face wet, hand still slick.
I am not sure what to do next, if I should kiss him or if he would be disgusted, or if he is upset—
He presses his mouth onto mine, kissing me through the mess as though understanding my hesitation. He takes his tongue and traces my gums as though to prove a point.
He pulls away from me without warning, and by the time I can catch my breath, he is already moving.
When he returns, he is dressed and composed, as though nothing just happened. “Stand,” he says.
I do.
He lifts my dress and pulls it back over my head, his hands steady, efficient, not lingering this time. There is something different in him now, something quieter and far more controlled.
“Come.”